


Of Castor and Pollux

by Decepticonsensual



Series: He Jests at Scars [9]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl and Arcee spend some time together after a battle.  Scratches and scrapes and second-guessing, and two people who understand each other a little better than they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Castor and Pollux

**Author's Note:**

> From a request on Tumblr with the prompt "battle fatigue". Slight descriptions of injuries, and a brief reference to Arcee having been an unwilling scientific subject.

He’s a sullen weight against her shoulder, ripped-up door wings twitching restlessly, buffeting her plating like an oversized butterfly as he replays the battle:  eight hundred moving parts cycling backwards, until they reach the moment where, if he’d just been quicker or bolder or smarter or had optics in the back of his helm, he could have turned the fight in a different direction.

“Slap a patch on that gash on your arm; it’s still leaking.”

He only glances up long enough to take the proffered bandage, but it’s enough - his concentration is momentarily disrupted, and whatever is burning behind those optics cools.

Prowl doesn’t like other people trying to dress his battle wounds, especially without asking, Arcee has learned, and he will downright snarl at medics who attempt to poke his uninjured frame “just to make sure you’re all right”.  She’s not quite sure whether it’s a question of breach of privacy or wasted resources, given how scathingly he talks about both.  But he does like when someone sees that he’s hurt, and calls attention to it, and gives him the means to fix it, all with as little overt sympathy as possible.  It’s his version of being tended to.

“Your foot is still scorched,” he tells her without looking up.

“Medics’re busy.  I’ll get it looked at later.”

“Shall I -”

“Nah.  Not this time.”  Arcee _does_ like getting her first aid from her friends - anything’s better than the med bay, and having to lie on a berth and stare up at the makeshift lights, and feel an itch as if Jhiaxus’s straps are going to tighten around her wrists, her chest, her throat any second now.  But the foot can still take her weight, and right now she’s reluctant to give up the warmth of Prowl’s body leaning on hers.

They stay in a heap like that, tucked away in a corner of the base, listening to the hum of activity around them gradually quiet; and then Prowl says, “We needed to keep the main attack force hidden longer.”

Arcee cuffs him gently upside the helm.  “Recharge.  Get your head straight.  Then fix it tomorrow.”

And as if some part of him were waiting for the order, he curls against her and drifts to sleep.


End file.
